Sometimes I remember, suddenly, the weight of you in my arms. I see the way your shoulder curved inward, your small hand tucked under your chin. The bow of your lips and your perfect nose, just like your sister’s.

I remember how in that blue hospital room I sang you the same bedtime songs I sang every night to your sister, while you grew snug inside me. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word,’ with tears running off my chin and onto your still chest, your brand-new already-dead skin.

I remember when it was time to say goodbye, how impossible it felt, how wrenching – how wrenching – to let R take you out of my arms and carry you over to the bassinet in the room where I delivered you, where we would leave you behind, still and quiet and growing cold.

I will never understand why you died. I will never know how we were able to walk away from that room, leave the hospital, resume a life without you.

I will never stop loving you, missing you. You are mine, my daughter, my beloved girl. You are mine.

 

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